


There are Betters Ways to Relieve Stress, and This is Not One of Them

by PhoenixUnknown



Series: Francel of The Pure White and the Twelve Ward Knights [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal, Desk Sex, Dis one for Nico, I was supposed to be doing halloween themed things, M/M, NSFW, Oneshot, Rimming, gift fic long in the making, its gross just like me, see what i did there?, this should only be the first in the series tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 15:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16161386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixUnknown/pseuds/PhoenixUnknown
Summary: In which Ser Zephirin displays his power and confidence in a subdued-but no less searing manner.





	There are Betters Ways to Relieve Stress, and This is Not One of Them

**Author's Note:**

> [[This will be an ongoing dump for one-shots that contain at least one ward knight in a single scene with Francel.  
> And Sex.  
> That's it basically.  
> Probably.  
> That's all I want to write about, whenever I manage to do it.  
> Basically I hate writing now, courtesy of some recent events in my life that suck but aren't important. But sometimes there is a thing you wanna give to someone as thanks for being friends and accepting you; ya feel?  
> Just happens that only one of the three things in life I care about is WRITING SEX, the others aren't gift-able. So-- that's a thing.  
> Not proof read or beta'ed. We die like men.  
> When will Ao3 let me use tabs...?????]]

________________

If there is one thing that Se Zephirin is infinitely grateful for, it is the freshness of air for which his private office has. He suspects, as he looks upon that precious boy which his Knights have fetched for him, that Lord Francel surely would have fainted were it stale or stifling.  Even when they enter, Ser Zephirin does not stand, but returns the pen he scratched at parchment with to a drawer before leaning back to observe. As is the younger Lord’s habit; he removes his Cavalier hat carefully and bows slowly to Ser Zephirin at the waist; deep and honest--just as the rest of him is.

Typical of Lord France as well, his cheeks have come to color rosy and soft. Humble and endearing as he is-unable to look up, let alone into Ser Zephirin’s wracking gaze. For good reason. Today, Ser Zephirin had felt an inkling of frustration which he could not outwardly show. Upon consideration and multiple inquiries sent through the city, Ser Zephirin found that Lord Francel was therein and had Ser Grinnaux and his longtime companion; Ser Paulecrain, go to fetch him.

Lord Francel did not disappoint, and he came quietly as soon as he was beckoned by Ser Paulecrain. Even now--he knows that when Grinnaux pawed that hat from his shaking fingers that he was to approach Ser Zephirin. As Francel is skirting around the edge of the desk, Ser Zephirin pushes back the heavy Knight’s captains chair as though it weighed little more than an iron pellet. Francel knew that the solid wood and metal lining of the chair was weighted, it was similar to that which Lord Haurchefant used. Francel has sat many a time in that chair and relied heavily upon Lord Haurchefant chuckling warmly whilst moving to push him in.

The Knight tilts his head in a beseaching manner, Francel has made his skittish-ness known in the shifting of his soles and the twisting of his hands. He is wholly endearing and sweet in this moment, always unassuming and retaining a pure intent at heart. Zephirin eases the very slightest of smiles and it likely soothes Francel’s being minutely.

As Francel stands before the Archimandrite, he is immediately struck by the image that Ser Zephirin is not completely equipped in his armor. His gauntlets leave his forearms bare, the firmness of his hands lain bare and bring to mind when last they were on his body. He burns to see that Ser Zephirin is devoid of heavy platemail cuirass, pauldrons, and belt. While it makes sense that he wouldn’t have gloves on in order to write, Francel cannot help but think that his particular state of undress is in preparation for himself. The knowing look bestowed upon Francel is fair reward that he was correct, and of course-the hand held out to him in beckoning. Francel takes it, and his ungloved hand warms quickly in Ser Zephirin’s palm. The ticklish sensation of every callus and every permanent divot sliding against the smoothness of his skin holds a certain level of comfort and of ease. A sensation that turns his gut to a churning of butterflies, and then to be tugged in a guiding fashing to bend forward and meet Ser Zephirin’s mouth with parted lips. Francel’s hand is still held tightly within Ser Zephirin’s, and the other is cupped warm and guiding against his neck; fingers curved against the back of his neck and threading into the short, soft hair at the base of Francel’s skull.

The lord can feel himself nestle into such a kiss, Ser Zephirin nurses his dim passion, it is that of a slow unfurling rose-bright and locked closed, but to see it opened is a truly magnificent thing, to scent that sweetness which was only something as pure as Francel, their own little rose to cultivate and to groom.

It is a terribly sweet kiss, Francel’s mouth melting against Zephirin’s in the blossoming warmth. Francel is braced with his other free hand on Zephirin’s shoulder, his fingers feeling the knot of muscles there, and the broadness. A timid dancing of fingers; innocent and soft against his collar bones.

         To touch Francel thus, slowly sucked the cruelness from his core. Made his hands which wished for destruction instead crave to handle something so delicately. Ser Zephirin felt his tenderness stretched as Francel's mouth moved against his own with dwindling hesitation; the wet warmth that his tongue slid home into infinitely inviting and forgiving. Ser Zephirin was loath to pull away, doing so while licking his lips of their mingled saliva. The ghost sensation of Francel’s pliant mouth lingered.

 

        Unpredictably, Ser Zephirin motions for him to turn around and put his hands on the desk-Francel was to remain thus, unmoving. Such became nigh impossible when hot hands pressed against the back of his knees and dragged upwards, his thighs and buttocks the target. Ser Zephirin found his stress draining as he fondled Francel, as he filled his hands with the pert flesh of his rear, squeezing and rubbing, running and reveling in the way the boy gasped, and in the way his elbows shook. The drag of cloth over soft skin a quiet whisper in the room, the short puffs of air through Francel’s nose sedate and withheld. Ser Zephirin’s hands felt large against his bottom, made him rock onto his toes and lean more heavily on the desk when when thumbs curled between his thighs and slide against the cloth to pull it taut between his legs with the action. Thumbs pressing up against his entrapped sac, whispered the quietest groan as his rear is lifted and his toes dig into the flooring to be squeezed thus. It made his cock twitch lightly in his underwear pulled tight by Ser Zephirin’s groping hands.

The man himself feels starved to manipulate supple flesh like this; feeling the smoothness beneath the clothes and malleable way that flesh jumped in his hold to be squeezed and fondled. His cock jumped in response and strained when seeing the way pert flesh bounced to place when released. An uncontrollable thirst and hunger overtaking him, a heat that boiled in his gut and guided his hands around Francel’s narrow waist and over the belting of his gaskins. Francel shuffles nervously on his feet to hear the metal of his belt unfastening, eyes closing tight in bashfulness when they loosen enough to drop around his ankles-Zephirin appears only to have the patience to pull his cotton underwear to his knees before his hands are on the warm flesh. Francel keens so low it is almost inaudible when war roughened hands slide over his bottocks to push the flesh tight together, breath feeling hot over the cleft of his rear where Ser Zephirin leans near to lick a narrow stripe with the tip of his tongue from tailbone to as high as his mid-back without having to stand.. The young Lords back curled inwards following the path, dipping in a way that further exaggerated the attractive curve that lifted his rear in the air and sent his knees trembling. So pleasing a reaction, raw and honest as it were made See Zephirin ever eager to draw at more; all thoughts aside of so terrible a day with sweetness incarnate before him. His hands worked soft flesh pink and warm with his pawing, fingers dragging over the flesh of his rear before his hands cup each arsecheek firmly and spreads Francel wide as he may without causing undue strain. The boy yelps at so sudden a lecherous motion, his rear tightens in Zephirin’s grasp, but still he massages and keeps him held apart. Francel has not even a second to spare before a mouth assaults the plump underside of each cheek; first tongue to press into the flesh before mouth meets the skin fully, pressure increasing slowly until teeth draw gentle against the skin sucked close. A tongue swirling over the skin being suckled, leaving one side for the other before returning to the same side again to leave wet reflections of light on Francel’s reddening rear. The saliva dampened flesh gleams eye catchingly, and Zephirin let's himself gaze at each spit glazed mark showing up on so pretty a pale buttocks whence making another.

There is then little ado before Ser Zephirin drives further between Francel’s parted cleft; a soft outcry of near disbelief when a mouth closes about the delicate hole normally hidden between that gloriously spread arse. A tongue, hot and firm unfurls against it to lap and lave over the flesh. Francel tries to twist his torso so that he can grab Ser Zephirin and push him away-but, the poor boy gets only as far as a hand on Ser Zephirin’s head before that tongue writhes against the twitching hole and dips wetly into it. The result of his tongue pressing in on Francel has the boy grasping at Zephirin’s hair rather than pushing on his head. His eyes are wide - that someone would put their mouth there, even yet; penetrate him with their tongue so expertly. Tongue flicking at the tightening entrance, in and out it dives, swirling at the ring before pushing back in until Zephirin feels he might drown in the plush rear he has the pleasure of burying his face into. And Francel damn well _keens_ with every deep push of his tongue, burns red when noticing he has been pulling forward on Ser Zephirin’s hair, rear raised unwittingly and his insides opening up to the Knight.

 

 _“Gods…”_  Francel whispers with a broken-up lilt, voice hitched with arousal unbridled to see that whilst being eaten out-Ser Zephirin had drawn out his cock to stroke and tease the leaking head of. Zephirin gazes up the long curve of Francel’s back to behold the dark blue eyes wide in wonder and in disbelief. Ser Zephirin gives his hard cock a squeeze before his tongue pulls out with a humiliating wet slurp from Francel’s thoroughly soaked rear, licking saliva from his lips he tilts his head.

 

“Now, brace thyself dear rose, I intend to pierce you deep and slow.”

 

The young lord shivers and would have turned around to face Ser Zephirin if not for the hands that curled around his hips and pulled back on them, it forced Francel to his elbows on the table that soon turned to him struggling to find a hold on it when feeling the thick head of Ser Zephirin’s member pushing in on him, the pressure steady as he rubbed and grinded it against the slick hole. He takes time admiring the opaque cum trail left in the wake of his glans rubbing the delicate pucker.

Slowly still he pulls back on Lord Francel’s waist and pushes up with his hips--Francel sweeps several papers off of the desk to be penetrated with such minimal preparation, grasping at the desk edges and moaning high pitched and continuous as his hips were pushed upon and his bottom forced to accommodate his Commanders large cock inside his tight arse. Ser Zephirin groaned ecstatically when the soft slap of Francel’s rear meets with his thighs. Francel was leaning over the desk, sweating and quivering with breathy whines on every gasp for air, and Ser Zephirin reclined in his chair, feet planted firmly on the ground and rocking up into Francel; a sharp moan is ripped from the action which turns to rolling groans as each inhale rolled into the next erratic exhale.

Ser Zephirin’s brow is pinched with the focus he has on Francel and the pale expanse of his back, smooth and with giddy-inducing traces of a pampered waistline when his gazed trails low to the small swell of his hips. A result of his fervent pious care, no doubt. Most likely adding to soft flesh that fingers could hold onto, that had the barest hint of give under his tightening hold. His soft arse is delightfully plump in his roaming hands, easily spread to witness his cock sinking in with punctuated moans from the lord whom he currently speared. It made his balls tighten, made it hard to swallow the spit in his mouth as the flesh bounced under his heated gaze. He sees how with each thrust the pliant hole becomes slicker in the wake of his deepening arousal, a rush of heady want washes over him. There is more to be had, he thinks; his biceps flex when lifting up on Francel’s hips, continues to hold him up until his shaft in its entirety has slipped out, and Francel’s body physically sags at the removal of intense pressure. Sweat drips down Ser Zephirin’s temple to be holding such long and shapely legs off the ground. But he is able to twist, and Francel’s gasps as his waist is shifted ‘round and so must he follow at the waist and above. His elbows sweep more papers off the desk, a scroll rolls away and a pen holder tips as Francel scrambles to meet Ser Zephirin’s demands. He feels the fabric of his pants and underwear stretched, some threads protested when forced over a boot. Ser Zephirin only bothers with one side.

The desk presses uncomfortably at his back, and his elbows protest his weight being held solely on them thus. The position last not at all, for Francel finds his legs hooked astride Ser Zephirin’s chair, hips tilted and allowing the knight to drag his wet cock between the damp split of his arse. The young rose groans as Zephirin guides himself back within. Slow and fulfilling, until Francel can only collapse back on the desk with a shapely arch of his back as Zephirin penetrates deeper yet. He stays this way, back finely arched with only his upper back, shoulders, and head pressing into the table. Ser Zephirin helping with powerful arms to lift Francel’s hips as high up his cock as he pleases, pushes him back upon it as fast as he desires, and letting Francel grind and roll his hips intoxicatingly before beginning anew. The boy is tortuous in his amorous gaze, and Ser Zephirin groans to be held by so heady lidded a gaze. Mouth open and begging in how swollen and sweet those lips parted and shone in the light. He feels nearly carnally desirous of this boy, speared upon his cock and vulnerable. Nay, nigh on venerable.

Ser zephirin pulls those hips flush against his lap, sinks deep and fulfillingly into such a velvetine heat-he almost sees stars with how suddenly tight Francel goes about his shaft. Feels the clenching and writhing of his insides so intimately that Ser Zephirin finds himself near complete breathlessness in passion.

A hand stays its place on Francel’s hip, tugging on him with each thrust which grows shallower. His other hand presses on the soft flesh above his pubic bone, palm gliding up his stomach and chest and throat. Francel quivers and his chest rises to meet the hand that sweeps over his peaked nipples and palm at his chest. Mouth hanging open, breath ragged and harsh, it comes in bouts that seemed almost painful in how he gasped and sound caught roughly in his throat between his pleasant groans. Ser Zephirin spreads his fingers over Francel’s sternum and drags his blunt nails very slowly down, down his chest, over the spasming, soft muscles in his abdomen. His fingers come together to slide back over his public bone, rolling to his palm and pressing the heel of it down gently. Ser Zephirin remains sheathed deep inside, instead choosing to thrust against his fleshy rear than withdraw and pump himself in-and-out. It feels primal and raw, seeing through the haze the way Francel throws back his head to cry out, increasing the downward pressure he applies on the mealeable flesh of his very lower belly. Francel’s hips begin to jerk erratically when he feels a sudden heat blossom and unravel at a pace he could not prepare for. More intense than before he feels the press of Ser Zephirin inside of him, inescapable in his grasp.

 

“There, steady now--”

 

The husky voice that ghosts hot breath over his ribs sends a wave of dizziness to his head and a queer numbness onsets as an electric tingle in his fingers and curling toes.

“S’deep…” Francel chokes out, his arms pull away from the desk and grasp Ser Zephirin’s hair, cradles his face close beneath his chest where Ser Zephirin has hunched over him.

 

“Aye..” It takes obvious effort for him to speak. His hand pinned where it bore down on Francel’s belly but unrelenting.

“Ah-Oh no… haa-its co-!”

 

The stiffness that locks his hands in Zephirin’s hair spreads to his curled toes and legs locked over Ser Zephirin and that sturdiest of chairs, his arms grow heavy in the same time that his head gets light, and his vision goes unclear and tilted. His hips are shaking with the effort of keeping Ser Zephirin sucked deep inside while his insides constrict in his orgasm.

He does not hear the hiss Ser Zephirin releases, the roll of a deep groan from his gut as his seed; desirous of release, uncoils heat in his gut and seeps into Francel. His back arches sharply one more time, the muscles straining before finally giving out and he sags bodily against the desk. Uncaring of the edge digging into his flesh, he only feels the slickness between his thighs and the burn of his lungs.

The young lord is barely aware of when the Archimandrite grasps him around his waist and pulls him instead to lean upon him bodily and reliably. Breathless against his shoulder, he's limp upon the commanders lap, feels warm hands sliding over his thighs and hips and moans breathily against a pointed ear. The sensation of seed dribbling from between the thickness of Ser Zephirin’s shaft, and the sensitive ring of Francel’s entrance a strange one that keeps him breathless and extends the feeling of fullness. The knight enjoys the way the lord shifts in his lap; sluggish and worn. The mere gentle lifting of the pliant flesh of his rear in his palms were enough to make more fluids leak despite the tight plug his shaft made.

It was the first time he had called upon the young lord since first summoning him to the Round Table. This was not merely the second time he'd seen the boy, however. Watched from a window on high as he passes beneath, a smiling green bud of a blossoming flower amidst swirling ice and snow. He glowed in the cold dark of eternal winter, gracious and humble when helping the poor or Brume-folk. Melancholic and lovely in his loneliness when he thought himself alone. Now here, on his lap-catching his breath and letting another man's seed stay planted within along with his cock as long as he pleases. All the same man, no less genuine or false than the next half of him.  Here, in the quiet of his official work room, a warm and beautiful young man situated delicately in his lap-keeping his cock warm and somehow his cheeks (and heart), warmer.


End file.
